Page 163 of Only for Him

I try to twist away but his hand is on my neck, squeezing just shy of blackout.

Flames lick at my core, a rage-induced lust rising, absolutely blinding—unparalleled in its ferocity, a rejection of anything that isn’tthis.

He’s covered in blood and I’m dripping down my thighs.

“You like this?” His voice is sandpaper, grinding. “You like seeing me bleed?”

He drags me to the ground.

My knees hit wood, bruising instantly as pain ripples up my thighs. He follows, his body crushing mine, the weight a sentence I can’t appeal.

He pins my wrists above my head with one hand, the other—his wounded one—still strong enough to rip my jeans open, button and all. My zipper shreds my skin as he yanks it down.

The rage is a furnace in my chest. I scream, but he just spits into my open mouth. I buck. I thrash. It’s no use. He’s too strong. He’s always been too strong.

And I’ve always been the girl who begged him to stop even as I spread my legs wider, and said no just to make the yes hit harder.

His hand shoves between my legs, rough and merciless. No warning or rhythm as he as splits me open, and impales his fingers deep inside of me.

“Fuck you,” I moan even as his palm grinds above my slit, shockwaves of need and pleasure jolting from my clit to the rest of my body. My knees shake and squeeze around him. He laughs again, but this time there’s something broken in it.

“You’ve always been like this, little viper,” he growls. “You’ve always been my plaything. You didn’t want to admit it, but you were made for me to use however I want.”

When he pulls his fingers free, I gasp. My cheeks are wet with tears and that emptiness returns. That hateful emptiness whenever he pulls away from me. The one I can’t stand.

Because he’s right.

My body is his. Always has been. And I hate it. I fuckinghateit.

“My cock is the only god you worship,” he says, spreading my legs wide as his thick, hard shaft slides between them and teases my entrance. “Deny it all you want. Your mouth can lie, but not your cunt.”

He thrusts inside, one brutal push. I bite down on his shoulder and taste salt, copper, my own shame. His hips grind into mine, every thrust a punishment I deserve and deny.

“You’re mine,” he grits. “No matter how much you fight it.”

His hand never leaves my throat. He squeezes with every word, every thrust, like he’s marking the syllables into my skin.

“You. Are. Mine.”

My body betrays me, clenching around him—it only makes him more savage.

He slams into me, again and again, hips brutal and breath ragged.

His blood paints me: smearing down my chest, beading between my breasts, streaking my stomach. He sees it, presses his mouth to where it trails across one nipple, and sucks. He laps the blood like a wolf, then bites down, just shy of breaking skin.

My wrists ache where he holds them. My throat bruises in his grip. My legs shake from being forced open. But all of it is background noise to the heat building between my hips. My body won’t stop answering him.

“Say it,” he growls. “Say you want it.”

I shake my head, but he squeezes my throat until black stars explode behind my eyes.

“Say it, little viper.”

“Fuck you,” I choke, refusing to say that I do want this.

I refuse to say that I want him. Or that I don’t ever want it to end. Even dizzy with need, drowning in his cock, impaled by my own pleasure—I refused to give him that last little bit of me.

The part that he craves most of all.